


The Irate Inspector and the Case of the Blue Box

by FoxFireside



Series: The Irate Inspector [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxFireside/pseuds/FoxFireside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a mysterious blue box materialises in City South Police Station, Inspector Robinson is not amused. Warning for bad language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Irate Inspector and the Case of the Blue Box

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Firebird9](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Firebird9).



> A Doctor Who (12)/Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries crossover (!) especially for Firebird9. Don’t expect great writing or a fantastic plot – it’s just for fun.   
> Rated T+ for excessive Peter Capaldi “The Thick of It”-style swearing and some Jack Harkness-style flirting. I certainly don’t expect the twelfth Doctor to be like this – though it might be amusing.

The afternoon stretched ahead of Inspector Robinson in a haze of paperwork and procedure, so the distraction, when it came, was not entirely unwelcome.  A strange, wheezing noise – as if a key were being scraped along a piano wire – and a muffled thud preceded the sound of a strident Scottish voice complaining at high volume.

“What!  What the fuck is this?  Just once, just fucking _once_ , I’d like to land where I bloody well intend to instead of _Clara don’t talk to the gaping idiots, you’ll encourage them_.”

Jack opened his office door to the sight of Collins looking panic-stricken as a grey-haired man strode about the foyer, trailed by a dark-haired young woman whose expression of bemused patience suggested this was a familiar occurrence. 

“It’s alright,” the girl was reassuring Collins as the young Constable tried to stop the grey-haired man from rifling through the files on the desk, “he just gets cranky when he gets us lost.  Again.”

“Clara, I’m not lost.  This…” the man made a face of disgust and paused to wave a hand about as if to indicate the entire city, “place is just in the wrong bloody spot in time and space.  This _should_ be 1973.  Brisbane.  The Rolling Stones! Milton Tennis Courts!   Rain and distorted amps and lots and lots of drugs and sex.  Not…fucking…1923 Adelaide alá _Homicide_.”

“1929 Melbourne.  City South Police Station, to be exact.  Can I help you?” Jack’s voice could have cut glass as he stared down the other man.  The blue wooden box that had appeared where the front door should be was steadfastly ignored for the moment.

A man could only deal with one impossible fact at a time.

The grey haired man turned on Jack with an air of superiority.  “Depends.  Know how to fix a navigation circuit on an early model TARDIS?  Nope?  Didn’t fucking think so _Sonny Jim_ , so why don’t you just stand there and look pretty, hmm?”

“Doctor!  Don’t be rude!  Honestly, you’re worse than the old you.  Say hello nicely.”

“Clara, I will _not_ be bossed about by y…ow!  Fine!”

One hand rubbing his ribs where the girl – Clara – had elbowed him, the grey-haired man offered a surly handshake to Jack.  “The Doctor.  Apologies for the misplaced landing.  My ship seems to be having a bit of a temper tantrum.  Should be out of your hair in, oh, an hour or so.”

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson,” Jack replied automatically, before his brain caught up with his ears.  “Wait, 1974?  And what, exactly, is this?” he gestured to the blue box, “and why is it inside my Police Station?”

“ _SHE_ is the TARDIS and she doesn’t like plodding New Zealand policemen…”

“Australian.”

“…Australian policemen pointing at her, thank you very fucking much.  Now, who do you have to lick to get a biscuit around here?”

..

“Now, this is not fair!  All I said was your crime rate wouldn’t be so bad if your police department wasn’t staffed by backwards imbeciles and morons..”

“Doctor, you’re not helping.”

“And I have to say, locking a man into a police cell for that is a bit of an overreaction.  Oy!  I’m talking to you, you numpty!”

Jack sighed and rubbed his eyes in frustration.  “You tried to kick my Constable in the teeth.”

“Yes, but he was touching the TARDIS.”

“An item which has been entered into Police evidence…at least until we can figure out how to get the damn thing out of the doorway.  And you’ll be staying in that cell until I decide otherwise.” Jack shot back.  Honestly, when he’d hoped for a case to take him away from the afternoon’s paperwork, he hadn’t expected anything quite this…headache inducing.

The grey-haired man – the Doctor – had seemed to delight in going out of his way to insult the Victorian Constabulary, the Federation of Australia and (when Jack had had enough and locked the man in the cell) Jack’s ancestry.  He was now sitting behind bars, pouting as his lady friend sat on the free side of the cell bars, drinking tea and eating home-made biscuits with clear enjoyment.

The grey haired man seemed to ponder this for a moment, before an unholy light came into his eyes and he rose to press against the bars of the cell.

“If you let me out, I’ll make it worth your while,” he leered, one hand snagging Jack’s cuff and tugging him closer.  “I’m a brilliant fuck, just ask Cleopatra.”

“Or Elizabeth the First,” Clara added idly.

“Or Elizabeth the First, or Oscar Wilde, or that lovely Prime Minister of yours, the one fond of swimming,” the Doctor agreed.

Jack tamped down on the flare of unexpected interest in his groin and rescued his shirt cuff from the man’s grip.

“I’ll add attempting to bribe an officer of the law to the list of charges, shall I?” he said archly as he left for the sanctuary of his office.

“Spoilsport!” echoed the shout from behind him.

..

When Hugh burst into Jack office in a panic ten minutes later to inform him that Miss Fisher had squeezed in through the front door and was now downstairs conversing with the prisoner, Jack swore under his breath and bolted for the cells.  The _last_ thing Miss Fisher needed was to spend time with a bad-mouthed Scot claiming to be from the future.  Or the past.  Or…Jack wasn’t entirely sure on that point.

But whoever the madman was, it was a **Bad Idea** for him to meet Miss Fisher.  Especially since this particular madman seemed interested in flirting with every person, male or female, he set eyes on.

By the time Jack reached the bottom of the stairs, he could hear Miss Fisher’s voice, interspersed with the deeper tones of the prisoner speaking and Phryne laughing.

Hot jealousy curled through him even as he rounded the corner and set finally set eyes on them.

The companion – Clara? – was nowhere to be seen, but Phryne was standing far too close to the cell bars as the Doctor regaled her with some story that was, to judge by Phryne’s shining eyes and occasional giggles, extremely amusing.

Jack was not impressed.

“Out, Miss Fisher,” he ordered, giving her a firm glare.

“Very bloody bossy for a man with no claim to your affections, isn’t he?” the Doctor murmured from where he stood leaning against the inside of the cell bars.  Phryne turned a mischievous look on Jack, as if weighing up what she could get away with.

“Now, Miss Fisher,” he demanded a little desperately.

“We were just _talking_ , Jack.  The Doctor was telling me about the future of female emancipation and the sexual revolution of the 1960s.  It’s all very interesting.  I can’t wait.” Phryne said, her lips turning up into a smile at the pained expression on Jack’s face.

“Right, _Doctor_ , you’ve had your allotment of visitors for the day,” Jack said, turning to look at the prisoner –

\- who was aiming some sort of electrical gizmo (damn it, Collins!  _Always_ empty a prisoner’s pockets!) at the padlock on the cell door.  With a click and a wisp of smoke, the padlock opened and the man stepped imperiously out of the cell.

“I’m bored with this prisoner business.  So glad I reconfigured the sonic for simple technology,” the man smirked, before turning to Phryne.

“Till next time,” he whispered, favouring the back of Phryne’s hand with a kiss, before springing at Jack and silencing his shout of protest with a thoroughly passionate kiss on the lips.

Breaking away, the madman winked at Jack before turning for the doorway.  “Fuckity-bye!”   He shouted, tearing away up the stairs with Jack in hot, if rather flustered, pursuit.

..

“It’s not your fault they got away, Jack,” Phryne reassured him later that evening as she topped up his tumbler of whiskey.  “After all, the man had a box that disappeared into thin air.  I doubt anyone could have stopped him from leaving the moment he felt like it.”

Jack met Phryne’s eyes with a huff of annoyance, unwilling to be soothed.

Phryne decided to change tack.  Throwing her head back, she swallowed down the last of her whiskey and moved to sit provocatively on Jack’s lap.  Startled, he wrapped an arm around her waist to balance her as she leaned close and whispered in his ear:

“Now, Jack, let me tell you a bit more about this ‘sexual revolution’…”

**Author's Note:**

> The Stones did play at Milton Tennis Courts in Brisbane, Queensland, in February 1973. According to my dad, the concert had been postponed twice due to rain; the sound was pretty dreadfully distorted; Keith Richards was quite possibly drugged off his head; and the local coppers were less than impressed when Dad and his mate crashed a Harley into a tree on the way home…  
> ‘Homicide’ was a 1964 – 1976 Australian police drama TV series set in – yup – the Homicide squad of the Victorian Police Force. It ran for a whopping 510 episodes.   
> The Prime Minister mentioned is Harold Holt (the 17th Australia Prime Minister, he served from 26 January 1966 to 17 December 1967) who went swimming at Port Phillip Bay one day and disappeared in heavy surf. The body was never found, and the case has become famous for the jokey conspiracy theory/urban myth that the Prime Minister was abducted by a Russian or Chinese submarine. In Australian slang, to “do the Harold Holt” is to ‘bolt’ or disappear suddenly.   
> Clearly, it is not a submarine but the Doctor who is to blame for the PM’s disappearance.


End file.
